The door to Professor McGonagall's office clicked shut behind Allen and Harry, leaving Hermione behind with the stern Head of Gryffindor. Allen didn't need to be a Seer to know what was happening behind that door. Hermione was about to be handed a Time-Turner—a device so dangerous and regulated that it usually required a mountain of Ministry paperwork and a life beyond reproach.
It was the ultimate sign of Dumbledore's trust. In a world where magic was often chaotic and unpredictable, Hermione Granger was the anchor of stability. But Allen couldn't help but let his mind wander into the darker "what-ifs" of chronomancy. If someone truly reckless had a Time-Turner, they could theoretically track down Tom Riddle's father before the boy was even a thought and leave him a lifetime supply of Muggle contraceptives. The tragedy of the Potters, the rise of the Death Eaters, the scars on Harry's forehead—all of it could be snuffed out in a single trip back in time.
But Allen shook the thought away as they walked down the corridor. Changing the past was a fool's errand. If he erased Voldemort, he erased the very world he had been reborn into. Would he even exist? Or would he be sucked into a temporal vacuum, a soul without a destination? He was here now, and he intended to keep it that way.
Madam Pomfrey walked beside them, still buzzing with a nervous, professional energy. "I've seen plenty of talented students pass through these halls, Mr. Harris," she said, her voice echoing in the stone hallway, "but to manifest a physical Patronus at thirteen? And to do it while under the direct pressure of multiple Dementors? It's unheard of. Most aurors struggle with that level of consistency."
She continued to mumble her praises all the way to the junction that led toward the Hospital Wing. She seemed convinced that Allen was some sort of magical anomaly, and to be fair, she wasn't entirely wrong.
When Allen and Harry finally reached the marble staircase and pushed open the heavy oak doors to the Great Hall, they were met with a wall of light and sound. Thousands of candles floated serenely above the four long House tables, their flames reflected in the golden plates and goblets that sat empty, waiting for the feast.
Just as they entered, they saw Professor Flitwick walking out of the hall, clutching the battered, ancient Sorting Hat and a three-legged stool.
"Oh, brilliant," Harry muttered, his shoulders sagging. "We missed the whole Sorting. Now we have to walk in while everyone's already seated."
They tried to keep a low profile, tiptoeing along the back of the hall toward their respective tables, but it was useless. As they passed the Hufflepuff table, heads began to turn. Whispers broke out like a localized storm. By the time they were halfway across the room, people were pointing openly.
The news of the Dementor on the train had traveled faster than the Express itself. But the rumors weren't just about Harry fainting; they were about the Ravenclaw boy who had stood his ground.
Allen realized there was no point in hiding. He straightened his back, smoothed out his robes, and walked toward the Ravenclaw table with a calm, measured stride. The students there didn't just look at him; they watched him with a mixture of awe and intense curiosity.
As he approached his usual spot, he noticed something interesting. The table was packed, but a wide space had been left around his seat. Even the first-years, who were usually squeezed in wherever they could fit, had been ushered elsewhere by Penelope Clearwater. It was as if his housemates had collectively decided he needed his own "throne" space.
Allen sat down, nodding politely to Penelope, who gave him a look that was half-worried, half-impressed.
At the High Table, Albus Dumbledore rose. The hall fell silent instantly. The candlelight caught the silver of his long beard and the twinkle in his eyes, but today, that twinkle seemed dimmed by a layer of gravity.
"Welcome!" Dumbledore's voice was rich and warm, reaching every corner of the hall without effort. "Welcome to another year at Hogwarts. I have much to say to you all, and as some of it is quite serious, I shall say it before we become befuddled by our excellent feast."
He cleared his throat, and the air in the room seemed to grow heavier.
"As most of you are now painfully aware, our school is currently playing host to several Dementors from Azkaban. They are here on official Ministry business to secure the grounds following the escape of Sirius Black. I trust you encountered them on the train."
Dumbledore paused, his gaze sweeping over the students. "I am profoundly proud to hear that several of our young wizards did not simply succumb to the darkness they bring, but actively resisted and repelled them."
At this, nearly every head in the Great Hall turned toward Allen. The Ravenclaws sat up a little straighter, their chests swelling with reflected glory. Allen felt Dumbledore's eyes lock onto his own. There was a profound depth in that gaze—a mixture of scrutiny and genuine admiration. It was the look of a man who saw a chess piece moving in a way he hadn't quite predicted.
"However," Dumbledore's voice rose, growing sharper. "Let this not be an invitation for bravado. Dementors are not creatures to be trifled with. They are blind to rank, to age, and to excuses. They do not understand 'pranks' or 'accidents.' No student is to leave the castle grounds without permission. And let me be clear: no disguise—not even an Invisibility Cloak—will shield you from their senses."
Allen blinked. That was a direct warning to Harry. He wondered briefly if his own magically enhanced robes, with their unique properties, would be as transparent to a Dementor as a standard cloak.
"Dementors are incapable of mercy," Dumbledore continued. "Do not give them a reason to harm you. I look to the prefects and our Head Boy and Girl to ensure that no one puts themselves in unnecessary peril."
Penelope's expression was grim. She had felt the chill on the train; she knew that Dumbledore wasn't exaggerating. Across the hall, at the Gryffindor table, Percy Weasley was practically vibrating with self-importance, his Head Boy badge gleaming. He looked around as if he were already imagining himself tackling a Dementor with a sternly worded letter.
Dumbledore's tone shifted then, becoming lighter as he began the introductions. "On a happier note, I am delighted to welcome two new members to our staff this year."
He gestured to the shabbily dressed man sitting at the end of the table. "First, Professor Lupin, who has kindly consented to fill the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher."
The applause was polite but thin. After the disaster that was Gilderoy Lockhart—a man who had proven that a charming smile could hide a complete lack of substance—the students were skeptical. Lupin looked like he hadn't had a good meal or a new set of clothes in a decade. Compared to the pristine, colorful robes of the other professors, he looked like a vagabond.
Allen's gaze drifted toward Professor Snape. The Potions Master looked like he was about to have a stroke. His sallow skin was drawn tight over his cheekbones, and his eyes were fixed on Lupin with a level of pure, unadulterated hatred that was uncomfortable to witness.
Allen didn't blame him. He remembered his own past life—the petty cruelties of school. He remembered being shaken down for ten yuan by a bully and the way that feeling of helplessness had festered in his gut for years. But what James, Sirius, and Lupin had done to Snape went far beyond a lunch-money shakedown. To be hung upside down, exposed and humiliated in front of the entire school? That wasn't just bullying; it was a soul-deep trauma.
You can heal from a curse like Sectumsempra. Scars on the skin eventually fade or become part of your story. But the scars of public humiliation? Those stayed raw forever. Snape wasn't just looking at a colleague; he was looking at a living reminder of his own powerlessness.
"As for our second appointment," Dumbledore said, interrupting Allen's thoughts, "I am pleased to announce that the role of Care of Magical Creatures will be taken over by none other than Rubeus Hagrid."
A roar of applause erupted from the Gryffindor table, and Allen joined in heartily, clapping until his palms stung. Hagrid's face turned a shade of beet-red that almost matched his giant coat. He hid his face in his massive hands, a grin visible through the thicket of his beard. He even used the edge of the tablecloth to wipe his eyes, much to the horror of Professor McGonagall sitting beside him.
Allen was genuinely happy for the half-giant, though a small part of him felt a twinge of concern. Hagrid had a heart of gold, but his definition of "cuddly" usually involved something with too many legs or teeth that could bypass a shield charm. Allen made a mental note to visit the hut soon—maybe he could steer Hagrid away from Blast-Ended Skrewts and toward something slightly more manageable, like a Hippogriff.
"Well," Dumbledore said, his voice ringing out with a final note of cheer. "That is enough talk for one night. Let the feast begin!"
In an instant, the empty plates were piled high with roast beef, roast chicken, pork chops, lamb chops, sausages, bacon, steak, and boiled potatoes. The smell was intoxicating, a rich, savory aroma that seemed to physically push the lingering cold of the Dementors out of the hall.
The clatter of silverware and the joyous hum of hundreds of conversations filled the air. For a moment, the fear of Sirius Black and the darkness outside the gates felt like a distant dream. Hogwarts was back in session, and the magic of the feast was the only thing that mattered.